ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through'

by FARMAN, ANDY

  “Are you going to shoot him, sergeant?” The question was whispered by a young Canadian subaltern to his platoon sergeants back.

  Sergeant Blackmore of the Nova Scotia Highlanders rolled his eyes and carefully turned his head, ensuring no waving items of undergrowth gave away his position as he moved.

  2Lt Ferguson was his fourth platoon commander in as many weeks. The first officer to hold that post was now the battalion 2 i/c, and his predecessor had lasted almost a fortnight before sticking his head up to see where some firing had come from instead of keeping it down even lower. Sergeant Blackmore could not remember the next ones name. On his third day, that particular young man had decided that consulting a map whilst out of cover had been a good idea. Mr Ferguson had joined the Highlanders recce platoon less than a day ago and already there was a book going. The smart money said young Mr F would not make it through the day, but it was Blackmore’s to keep the man alive.

  Plus of course, Blackmore had $100 riding on 48hrs!

  “Sir, shooting him would be noisy.” He whispered back. “And we are the recce platoon, not the anti-tank platoon. The anti-tanks are the battalion’s loud buggers, and we are supposed to be the really quiet ones.”

  Ilya Morimsky was now stood upon the aircrafts wing, and leaning inside the cockpit, flicking switches, going through the proper shutdown sequence for the last time and the sound of the jet engine sank away to nothing. He patted the fuselage affectionately before walking south, taking a cigarette from a pocket in his flight suit and lighting up once he was clear of the stink of aviation fuel.

  “And besides,” Sergeant Blackmore explained. “It took balls to do that; I’ll send Junot and Hicks to take him prisoner.”

  A pair of military policemen collected the Colonel from his captors, escorting him away through woods where men were taking down camouflage nets and stowing them away in their fighting vehicles in preparation to move.

  Everywhere he looked Ilya saw enemy armour, the Highlanders LAV III Infantry Fighting Vehicles, the Coyote armoured recce vehicles of The Fort Garry Horse, and Leopard C2 MBTs from two different regiments, the Royal Canadian Dragoons and the Canadian VIII Hussars.

  Morimsky told himself that his navigation had to be out and that he was further north than he had thought, because the alternative did not bear thinking of, a NATO armoured force on the loose amid his armies supply lines.

  The time for concealment had passed, the crews mounted up and the armoured fighting vehicles of the 2nd Canadian Mechanised Brigade roared into life.

  The close support from the air force hampered the efforts of the defenders long enough for a plough tank to get to within sixty metres of the first of the 4 Company trenches before it was destroyed by 94mm LAW’s, fired point blank from the infantrymen’s fighting holes, but the damage had been done, the minefield had been breached.

  The sound of small arms fire and grenades almost drowned out the voice of a sergeant in the 82nd as he gave a sitrep to Pat Reed, communications had been lost with 4 Company command post and the platoon commander of 12 Platoon, the sub unit facing the breach in the minefield, was dead. The Czech’s had taken four trenches after fierce fighting but they had been unable to increase that number, being repelled with heavy losses on their last attempt.

  The cleared path through the mines had been blocked by good fire from 10 Platoons Milan team, firing across the front of 12 Platoon and knocking out a T-72 and a T-90, isolating a T-72, six BTRs and BMPs that had followed the mine plough through. Five armoured vehicles, including the T-72, were stopped and burning on top of 12 Platoons positions, but the infantry the APCs had carried were in and around the captured trenches and being supported by fire from their comrades beyond the minefield. The remaining two Soviet fighting vehicles had driven through the 12 Platoon position and further uphill to where the platoon in depth, 11 Platoon, had taken the pair under fire and destroyed both.

  The American NCO wanted the enemy supporting fire suppressed in order for a counter attack to retake the holes.

  After tasking the mortars to drop smoke in the way of the enemy support fire Pat called on 1 Troops commander and was alarmed to find that the troop commander had the only vehicle of the troop still in action. The other Challenger had been struck at the base of the turret, the shot had failed to penetrate but it succeeded in buckling the armour and fusing enough of it to the chassis that it could no longer traverse its gun. The Chieftain of the troop was undamaged but it was out of sabot and almost out of HESH. Pat told the man to ‘wait out’ and shifted to the battalion command net, but there was no response from Mark Venables on that means or by Ptarmigan. He called up 3 Company, but as they had not seen or heard from the Squadron Commanders tank he had to switch back to 1 Troop.

  “Hello Tango One One, this is India Nine…where is your Sunray? Where is Tango One Nine, over?”

  “Tango One One, I have heard nothing from my sunray for figs two zero.”

  It was almost a dilemma, not having sufficient tank killing power to enable the defeat of the enemy who were within 4 Company’s positions, without diverting 2 Troop away from where they would soon be desperately needed. Fortunately the AS-90s of the Royal Artillery had completed their move to a new gun line and the Czech supporting fire dried up soon after the 155mm guns were turned on them.

  The Czech battalion commander was on foot, having gotten as far as the mines where both tracks had been blown off, he and his crew abandoned the vehicle just prior to a Milan destroying it. He had neither the means nor the willpower to force his men to stand and fight, all the plough tanks had been knocked out and the defenders fire too accurate for the mines to be cleared by hand. He couldn’t even get a ride, several tank and APC commanders saw their Colonel and his crew running from shell crater to shell crater, but possibly fearing he would order some futile action they ignored him, withdrawing back the way they had come.

  With one crisis over the reports coming into 1CG’s CP became more upbeat, a REME recovery vehicle reported it was with Major Venables callsign and had replaced a track blown off by a near miss during the air raid. With the track replaced the REME and Venables Challenger had left their very exposed position on the hillside, moving to 4 Company’s CP before repairing the tanks communication’s, damaged in the same air attack. They had found a scene of feverish activity there, the CP’s roof had collapsed during the shelling but there had been no fatalities, the company headquarters staff had been released from their would-be tomb and were now frantically attempting to recover equipment, including communication’s gear, which was still buried.

  12 Platoon regained its lost fighting holes and took eight prisoners, but they had lost five dead and four wounded during the entire action, losses that Lt Col Reed felt obliged to make good from 1 and 2 Company.

  A resupply was carried out for the men in the trenches; it was not so simple for the Hussar’s though. Mark Venables and his crew traded vehicles with that of the damaged 1 Troop Challenger, transferring their ammunition to the Troop commanders vehicle before heading to the rear with 1 Troops Chieftain following. The Chieftain went for reloads and Mark Venables brought the damaged Challenger to the REME’s makeshift workshop.

  The Greek F-16s splashed one SU-27 Flanker and three of the SU-39s with AMRAAMs for the loss of one of their own, but it was more likely that the Soviet strike withdrew due to the escorting Flankers fuel states rather than prudence.

  This time the AWAC’s message was passed to all forces in good time and the Stinger and Starstreak crews stood down. The Jaguars of the Armee de l’Air realised almost as soon as they were above the contested hill that the Soviet AAA radars were still on standby, they had not been told their own aircraft were clear of the battlefield.

  The first company of 23rd MRRs Third Battalion was cresting the rise to the left of the farms ruins when the Jaguars attacked with CBUs, they made a single pass down the length of the column, destroying three tanks and four APCs before disappearing to the southwest, but the AAA r
adars did not immediately light up, the operators hesitated still, allowing two flights of three A-10 Thunderbolts from the 103rd Fighter Wing to attack unchallenged. The seven barrelled 30mm cannons made a sound like tearing cloth as they fired, exploding eleven vehicles in a single pass before egressing to the west, scattering Gator mines from their underwing dispensers. One pilot found himself flying toward a half circle of stationary vehicles and a nearby cluster of men besides a ruined building. He had time for one long burst, walking it across a BTR-80, the T-80 beside it, and on across a pair of running figures.

  23rd MRRs commander could feel the heat of the flames issuing from his burning command tank, even though the freezing muddy water had soaked his uniform. He heaved himself up onto his hands and knees in the puddle in which he had landed when he’d dived for cover, looked around for his 2 i/c and bawled angrily at him when he saw him listening earnestly on the signaller’s second headset some thirty metres away, seemingly oblivious to the violence of just moments before. His Intelligence officer and an infantryman from his escort had been reduced to hamburger by the A-10s strafing run, but the regimental commander gave them not a second thought except to angrily kick loose a piece of intestine that had landed on his boot.

  Two attacks had been defeated, two attacks by a total of six companies had failed to take and hold so much as a single NATO foxhole, and now those NATO bastards had tried to kill him without one of his AAA units firing a shot. He turned and looked at the ZSU-23-4 that was charged with his protection, it too had failed to take action in time, and surely that could not go unpunished, could it?

  Radars started to come back up, an SA-9 was launched and a ZSU hit an A-10 in the port engine but then the Thunderbolts were clear. The French Jaguars were still in the vicinity though, knowing that at some point the AAA would react and they killed both the SA-9 launcher and the ZSU, causing the radars to shut down once again.

  The regimental commander had witnessed the turret of the ZSU attached to his headquarters pivot, quite obviously under guidance from its radar and then shut down again after the French HARMs began arriving. Quite obviously an example was called for here, and who better to demonstrate what befell those who failed in their duty then he himself. He undid the flap of the holster on his hip before stepping off purposefully towards the vehicle in question. The sound of running feet caused him to glance over his shoulder, but it was just his 2 i/c so he carried on walking.

  “Who was that on the radio?”

  Obediently his 2 i/c took up station a couple of paces behind him.

  “It was the divisional commander, sir.”

  23rd’s commander began to demand as to why he had not been informed but the sentence was not completed. The men nearby turned and gawped at the sound of distant thunder, and flashes reflected by the cloud to the east. Some of the men recognised the sound and looked nervously at the skies above their heads. It was an infantryman from the escort who first looked away from the direction of the MLRS attack and noticed his regiments two most senior officers, the one lying face down in the mud and the one stood a little behind with his arm still extended, a wisp of blue/grey smoke dissipating around the muzzle of the pistol held in that hand.

  23rd MRRs new commander holstered the pistol and gestured to the signaller who ran across.

  “Halt the battalion and have the company commanders join me here, we have some quick changes to make and then they can resume.”

  The delay cost another twenty minutes, and when once more the armour headed west the regimental command group was included.

  Pat Reed received word that the third and largest formation yet had entered the valley, and with it came a further air raid warning. He had expected it sooner but any delay could only be to the good in the long term.

  He looked around the command post and up at its very substantial roof, deciding that Jim Popham could run the show for a while. He was a hands-on soldier and that was his excuse for leaving the main CP.

  “Timothy?”

  The adjutant raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Sir?”

  “Call Sarn’t Higgins, tell him to bring up a Warrior for me and Defence Platoons reserve section, and tell Jim Popham that until he hears otherwise, he has the battalion, understood?”

  “Er, no sir, is that wise?”

  Pat paused in the entrance to the CP, looking back at his Adjutant.

  “Timothy, I just told you that until further notice Major Popham is the ‘The Daddy’, but that does not make you my Mother.”

  The Warriors had not yet arrived and random mortar rounds were landing over to the left so Pat ducked into the dugout cum briefing room to wait, and there found the two snipers, Stef and Bill sharing a mug of coffee.

  “As you were, chaps.” Both men had stood respectfully on recognising the CO, and now relaxed, sinking back onto their haunches. Pat squinted as if trying to see through the side of their metal mug, trying to discern the constituent parts that made up the hot beverage within.

  “I don’t suppose you have any sugar in there, do you?”

  “If you want, I’ve got some artificial sweeteners somewhere, Boss?”

  Pat pulled a face.

  “I thought you two had been told to report to 1 Company?”

  “With respect sir, the ground back there can be covered by a half blind clerk, the maximum range offered is only four hundred metres.” He was looking for signs of anger or annoyance in his commanding officer, but none were apparent. “We were loitering here and looking for a lift on a battle taxi going forward, sir.”

  The sound of Rolls Royce Perkins, V8 engines reached them, winding their way around from hide positions in the rear.

  The snipers thought their last orders did not befit their skills, and Pat was inclined to agree.

  “Well you had better come along with me then.”

  The Warriors halted outside where all three mounted up, running to the vehicles in a half crouch as heavy artillery rounds moaned their mournful way westwards, seeking NATO gun line’s.

  Aboard ‘Sabre Dance Two Four’ the operators finished their post-MLRS strike estimate and passed on two sets of figures, the optimistic and the pessimistic, knowing the true figure lay somewhere between.

  Elements of two divisions had been targeted, 9th and 13th Guards, both elite Russian units had been hit hard even if the lower figure were held to be true. It would be of little immediate assistance to the men and women blocking the juggernauts way to the autobahns though, the Hungarian division had finished its deployment into column of regiments and was moving now towards the units immediately in front, the Light Infantry, Coldstream Guards, Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders and the Wessex Regiment. All were British units of 3 (UK) Mechanised Brigade and the Guards were already in contact, but within an hour and a half the entire defence line from the Dutch 2nd Armoured Brigade on the left flank to the US 4th Armoured on the right were going to be fighting for their lives.

  Down on the ground the anti-tank troop of the second Royal Marine unit, 44 Commando, hadn’t waited for the Hungarians to begin their advance. The marines ducked around the Romanians left flank, taking the fight to the enemy and getting their punch in first. The sensors on Sabre Dance Two Four picked up thermal signatures consistent with explosions of armoured vehicles amid the Hungarian ranks.

  The forward edge of the battle area was not the only scene of activity on the operator’s screens, both the French 8th Armoured and Canadian 2nd Mechanised Brigades were now driving back towards the Elbe, and where they found enemy support units they destroyed them. Both brigades had detached small combat teams that headed west to provide a delaying force for the Soviet armour that would inevitably turn on them. A French company combat team had fallen on two batteries worth of Russian MSTA-S 152mm Self-Propelled howitzers and their ammunitions carriers being refuelled beside a road. The thick columns of black smoke and continuing secondary explosions punctuated the urgency of radio transmissions from Soviet troops under attack.

/>   The route taken by Mark Venables Challenger had been picked up by the CO’s driver who had followed the trail marked by the tanks caterpillar tracks over the hilltop. It was an unplanned by-product of the track plan enforced by the CO, no vehicles had been permitted to venture onto the hilltop where its thermal output would have glowed brightly for all to see for miles around, assuming of course that the ‘all’ had heat sensors in their recce vehicles/surveillance aircraft. With an air raid in the offing the Warriors hadn’t hung around to admire the view, the rollercoaster ride had been endured by the vehicles occupants, terminating as it did a hundred and fifty metres from 3 Company’s CP.

  Pat Reed clambered from the lead vehicle and jumped down into a nearby shell crater, waiting for Guardsmen in the second vehicle to manhandle two boxes of Stingers that the company’s CQMS had apparently requested. Sgt Higgins, Bill and Stef joined him, taking care to avoid the muddy water that was already starting to fill the hole.

  Artillery had been falling on the forward slopes but suddenly it stopped.

  Big Stef clambered up the side of the crater and looked for the next cover, it was another crater just a few yards away and he took advantage of the lull to jog towards it. A trio of jet aircraft screamed down the valley, flying parallel with the positions held by the Guards and 82nd men, Stef dropped to a crouch, taken unawares by their presence and feeling vulnerable above ground. He looked to see if they were friend or foe but the aircraft had gone, disappearing faster than his head could turn, and then the big Geordie was lifted bodily and thrown eight feet.